


Wake

by PoisonKisses



Category: Batman (Comics), Gotham City Sirens (Comics)
Genre: Brief Teen Titans, F/F, F/M, Hope, Revenge, Sirens: Rebirth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: She was their rock. How will they go forward with Ivy gone?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write something to express some emotions over today, and this came out.
> 
> I'm a huge Ivy fan for a variety of reasons, she represents hope and we need it right now. 
> 
> This may not seem all that hopeful, but stick with it til the end.
> 
> This is loosely continued from my voting fluff fic which should tell you a little something about my headspace between that fic and this one. http://archiveofourown.org/works/8511352

They buried Poison Ivy on a Saturday.

It was a particularly gloomy and bleak day, poetically enough. A slow, grimy, filthy rain was falling—the sort of rain that soaked everything, seeping inside your clothes, chilling you to the bone, and unlike rain from literally anywhere else, it was a Gotham rain. Both oily and gritty, it made you feel greasy and dirty, and the moment it touched you all you could think about was a hot shower. It was the kind of rain Poison Ivy had given her life to try and fight. There was something profoundly…sad…that on this day, the day she was being put in the ground, it rained, as if it were celebrating its victory and mocking her efforts, her fight.

Selina Kyle didn’t like funerals. Usually she avoided them, preferring to enjoy life rather than wallow in death, but she’d come as support. Harley was a wreck. For the last three days she’d alternated between uncontrollable crying and sitting in shock, numb, staring into space. Harley needed her, and even though Selina disliked being here, she wouldn’t abandon her friend. Again.

The service was graveside, closed casket. The bomb hadn’t left anything anyone would have wanted to see. Bruce had mentioned in passing it was a testament to her durability that the charred, skeletal remains were intact at all, anyone else would have been atomized. He’d said that bomb would have killed Diana, would have hurt Superman. It was designed specifically to coat everything in the vicinity with hot plasma, and even Ivy’s toughness and ability to heal was overcome.

_She’d asked him, “Was there pain? Did it hurt?" He’d looked grim, and she’d had to repeat the question._

_“For most people, no. For Ivy, yes, she was alive for a least a little bit after the initial explosion.”_

_“Jesus, Bruce. Lie to me next time.”_

The service had thirty chairs, but they were empty. She sat with Harley, just the two of them, as the preacher did a quick, quiet sermon. Ivy had never been religious, but Selina had to arrange things on short notice. She was angry. Someone could have come. Ivy was…difficult to like, it was true, but she’d worked with a lot of them. None of the heroes had attended, and Selina mentally filed that away. None of the league. No Bruce or any of the Bat family. Selina’d thought at least Batgirl, or maybe Black Canary, would have come. Lex had sent several hundred dollars of flowers, and Selina was trying to decide if that was a sincere sympathy or a subtle insult—anyone who knew Ivy even remotely knew she wouldn’t approve of dead flowers. Selina had already decided she’d be paying Lex a little visit. Real soon.

The big surprise had come right after the service. She was holding Harley, who was quietly weeping into the shoulder of her little black dress, when a limo had pulled up, and Oswald had gotten out. Four bodyguards—all of whom looked like they were retired football players—accompanied him, and Selina had met him on the way up to the site. He was dressed in black, and swept his tophat off as Selina approached.

“Oswald. What are you doing here?” Her voice was flat, and scratchy. She’d been holding it together for Harley’s sake, but it wasn’t easy.

“Hello Selina. I hope you’ll accept our deepest condolences.” Before she could interrupt, he held up a hand. “Oh, I know. Pamela and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but I always respected her for her intelligence, her tenacity, and her strength.” He glanced uncomfortably at Harley, who was staring at him, her face puffy and eyes red from crying.  
Selina nodded, but crossed her arms. “It’s true, we’re not all one big happy family, but Pamela was always the best of us. We’re diminished.” 

“The rest of them?” She didn’t need to elaborate on who she meant by ‘them.’ Oswald sighed.

“I fear most of our compatriots are in no position to attend. She spoke her mind, and wasn’t well-liked. Johnathan is in Arkham, Edward is working—as you well know,” and she did, it was Eddie that set Ivy on the path that got her killed…

_  
“Eddie?” Ivy’s voice was sharp, surprised. Selina looked up from her crossword puzzle and had to bite back asking Ivy to get some input from the Riddler—love him or hate him Eddie was unmatched at the daily crossword. She was only privy to Ivy’s half of the conversation, but her ears perked up._

_“No, I know the guy…”_

_“They said that?”_

_“Jericho 254, that was the name? You’re sure?”_

_“I need the address. NOW, Eddie…”_

_Selina stood as Ivy ended the call, concern on her beautiful face. “What’s going on, Ives? What’d he find?”_

_Ivy favored her with a look, as though she were considering, and finally answered. “You remember when I fought that pharmaceutical company, Vivre, last year?”_

_“Right, you said they didn’t take kindly to your interference?” Selina prompted._

_They have a warehouse here in Gotham, under another company name. Eddie dug it out of their corporate records. According to what he found, they’re storing a toxin called Jericho 254, a defoliant. I’ve got to go put a stop to this, Selina. It explains why they tried to call me out. They knew I would be there, be involved in that march. They were trying to get ahead of things.”_

_“Wait, Ivy, hold on,” she had to grab Ivy’s arm—the other woman was headed toward the door. “Hold up, we need to recon, to plan, we can’t just…”_

_Ivy cut her off. “There’s no time! If I don’t jump on this right away, they could move the toxin and I’ll miss the opportunity to destroy it. In finding this out, it’s entirely possible Eddie tripped alarms, they could be moving it as we speak.”_

_“So, we’ll just find it again. I mean, it’s not like they can’t just make more, right?_

_“Selina, this chemical is valuable. Fifty thousand a barrel if I had to estimate, and that’s on the low end. Eddie saw a manifest for five hundred barrels.”_

_Selina gave a low whistle. “Ok, that’s a lot of money.”_

_“It is. Enough to cripple the company if something bad were to happen to it.” She was grinning wickedly as she turned, Selina sighed._

_“Ivy.” There was a pause. Ivy stared at her expectantly, her green eyes flashing. “Be careful, ok? If you need Harley and I, call us.”_

_“Of course. Don’t worry, Selina. I got this.”_

_It was the last thing Selina heard her say alive._

__  
Oswald left, and Selina opened her umbrella, holding Harley close as they lowered Ivy’s casket. The gravesite was under an old Willow tree in a corner of a cemetery that had been on the outskirts of Gotham for almost two centuries, the plot purchased by Wayne money, though nobody but she and Bruce knew that. It was quiet here, away from the noise and the light from the city. Ivy would have liked it here. It actually wasn’t far from Wayne Manor, and Selina liked that. She would see her friend’s resting place every time she drove out to see Bruce.

Poor Bruce, she’d been terrible to him. She’d taken it out on him, and the only reason she could think of was because she needed it and he could take it.

_  
“You did this! It’s YOUR fault! Goddamn you, Bruce. God-fucking-DAMN you!” She was crying and she couldn’t stop. Bruce was stoic, powerful hands lightly holding her by the elbows as she raged. He’d tried to calm her at first, but that had only pissed her off more._

_“Selina,” he started but she cut him off, eyes blazing, mouth running away from her._

_“Where were you? Why weren’t you there to stop her? Oh, let me guess. The Joker blew his fucking nose and you had to be there with a kleenex and a gentle slap on the wrist? Or maybe you were hoping he’d blow something else?” His face hardened, she’d scored points._

_Behind her, Vicki Vale was calmly reciting her copy in, what passed for her, a solemn voice. “For those viewers just tuning in, it has been confirmed that infamous eco-terrorist and metahuman criminal, Poison Ivy, was killed today when a bomb she was allegedly planting to destroy a chemical storage warehouse here in Gotham accidentally went off. The GCPD, along with the Vivre Corporation, are assuring Gothamites that there is no danger of chemical contamination…”_

_Selina screeched, “Oh FUCK YOU VICKI,” and grabbed the nearest thing at hand—a fifty thousand dollar vase—and flung it at Bruce’s twelve thousand dollar plasma TV. It made a satisfying crunch when it collided with the glass, a mini explosion, snaps and hisses as the TV died an electrical death._

_“SELINA,” Bruce yelled, appalled, and she turned to him, looking at him, really looking, and angrily trying to wipe tears out of her eyes._

_“You can’t let them do this, Bruce. You can’t let them talk about her like…like she’s just some monster that needed to be put down. They’re blaming her. They’re joking. You can’t…” she trailed off, hoping to see sympathy there._

_She did. She saw something deep in his eyes, a sadness. “I know, Selina. We have to…”_

_“You Justice League ASSHOLES. Not one of you has said a word. NOT ONE!” She flung an arm out, pointing vaguely at the smashed TV._

_“It’s Justice League policy not to comment on the actions of heroes or villains acting outside of our purview, you know that Selina. We’re not going to hold a press conference for Wonder Woman to tell the world Poison Ivy wasn’t that bad.”_

_“Isn’t,” she managed as she sank into the cushions of Bruce’s couch. “Please. Don’t use past tense. Not yet.”  
_

The pulleys squeaked as the casket was lowered into the Earth, burying Poison Ivy deep in the soil, surrounded by tree roots. Ivy would have liked that, Selina thought, but she couldn’t think of the charred bones in that coffin as her friend. She closed her eyes, fighting tears, remembering Ivy as she was: lush, beautiful, arrogant and maddening and intensely loyal. Ivy, laughing at Batman struggling in vines. Ivy, frustrated as Harley chattered about My Little Pony while she tried to work in her lab. Ivy, moaning as she and Harley took turns with their lips and tongues and fingers. Ivy, singing softly to new green shoots as they struggled to break free of the soil in her lab. Silently, she said goodbye.

“Do you think she knew?” Harley’s voice was small next to her. She hadn’t spoken much in the past few days.

“Knew what, sweetie?” Selina asked. Her voice was weak—she had to force it around the lump in her throat.

“Y’know. How I really felt.” She turned to look Selina in the eyes. Harley’s were bright blue and bloodshot, glistening with more tears.

“I think she knew,” Selina lied. Lied. She’d sat with Ivy in companionable silence too many times after Harley’s seemingly endless departures in favor of the Joker. Ivy wasn’t a sharer. She didn’t discuss her feelings. She absolutely hated any sign of her own vulnerability, and so no, they’d never had heart to hearts about how much pain she was in when Harley left, but Selina knew. Ivy was more human than anyone knew, more human than even she herself admitted. Selina knew she cried sometimes, but it had always been in private.

“I would have picked her. In the end.” Harley had turned away, talking to no one in particular. Selina wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, Selina or herself. “I would have. I loved her. So much. I hope she knew. God please let her have known…” Harley trailed off. Selina pulled her close.

“I know, sweetie. She knew. You have a problem, an addiction. She understood that.”

“Never again,” Harley said, angrily wiping at her face, getting angry. “I’ll never go back to him. Just one joke about Red I swear ta God I’ll kill ‘im.” Her accent faded in as she pulled on the Harley Quinn persona like a suit of comfortable clothes. If that’s what she needed to move past this, thought Selina.

“Ivy would’ve wanted that. All she ever wanted for you was to find happiness, Harls.”

“I know. She was my rock, Kitty.” Harley sniffled. “She was like, an old tree. The one in tha park that’s been there since before there was a park, since before there was even a city, and you knew it was gonna be there everytime you go back. An’ maybe there are some new lovebird initials carved into tha trunk, or a limb has fallen off, but ya just know that tree will be there, strong when ya need it, givin’ ya shade when it’s hot.”

Selina grinned. “Sweetness, I think that was the plot of the Giving Tree.”

Harley smiled back, but it was a sad one. “Yeah, but the tree died in the end of that one too.”

“Yeah.” Selina stepped forward to toss a handful of dirt into the hole after the box, and reluctantly Harley did too, sniffling and wiping her nose. Selina nodded to the two men standing respectfully to the side, waiting to fill the hole in. The man in front nodded sympathetically back. His shirt read, ‘Jim.”

She was leading Harley away when the girl spoke again. “I dunno what I’m gonna do, Selina. I don’t know how to go forward. How am I gonna make it without her?”

Selina walked in silence for a moment before answering. “You’ll go on…we’ll go on…cuz that’s what Pam would want. She was a survivor, and so are we.” Harley smiled through her tears.

Selina put Harley in a cab. “Now, remember, I’m coming over tomorrow night and we are gonna get epically drunk and remember Pam. Got it?” 

“I got it. Selina?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Thanks. For everything. I dunno if I’ve ever really said it to ya, but I love ya.”

Selina smiled back. “I know you do, sweetie.”

“Ivy did too, ya know that right? She didn’t know how to say it, but she loved ya.”

“I loved her too, Harley. Get some rest.” She felt a tear run down her cheek as she patted the roof twice to let the driver know to go.

After a few moments, she walked over to a fat oak tree and leaned against it, crossing her arms. At least the rain had let up, she thought thankfully. Then, out loud, she said, “So were you here for the whole service?”

“Yes,” said Batgirl, sheepishly. Selina felt some of her ire draining away. Ivy had always behaved oddly around Barbara, like she genuinely liked the girl. Privately, she was glad for Pam’s sake at least Babs had shown, even if she’d stayed hidden. “It was a,” Babs groped for words, “lovely ceremony.” She knew how trite it sounded and flinched. Selina almost laughed.

“It was terrible, and we both know it,” she pointedly looked around. “Is it just you?”

“Yeah, technically, none of us are supposed to be here. Batman was very clear on that.”

“Yes, well, subtlety isn’t his strong suit.” There was a bitter edge to it.

“Selina, I’m sorry.” Barbara laid a gloved hand on her arm, her eyes full of sincere sympathy.

“Thank you, Barbara. I don’t have a lot of friends, and losing one like this hit hard.” She tilted her head at the vigilante. “You know, I’ve been thinking since it happened, life is short. I didn’t even know Ivy COULD die. Now…I think Bruce and I need to talk.”

“Does that mean what I think?”

“Maybe. Maybe you and Dick should have that talk too.”

Barbara nodded, a smile ghosting on her lips. “Selina, if you need anything, let me know, ok? Anything at all.”

Selina hugged her and walked to her car. True to her training, Barbara slipped into the darkness, disappearing into the night. For a few long minutes, Selina stared at the massive tree where her friend had finally found some peace.

“Good bye, Ivy.”

_*Elsewhere*_

“I don’t understand why you’re stalling, Holland,” the man petulantly said. His gnarled arms were crossed, his face pinched and sour. Alec didn’t like him, had never liked him, even all those years ago.

The creature called Swamp Thing stood to his full height, towering over the rail thin man. A small part of him that still thought like a human was amused at the fear and the flinch he caused. He spoke, his voice so deep it reverberated through the man’s body.

“ **Patience. The Parliament of Trees does not act on your human timetable.** ” The man sneered.

“Poison Ivy is dead. Her place is vacant, and I am the only viable candidate to take it, Holland. Your personal feelings aside, it’s time to give me what I deserve.” Alec’s elemental face didn’t change expression, but inwardly he was suppressing the urge to throttle the little man—what he deserved.

“ **Yes. Pamela Isley was bombed. What do you know of that? Were you involved?** ”

“What if I was? The Parliament of Trees, the Green, doesn’t care about petty human squabbles. We both know it. Just because you’re upset your little protege is gone to her eternal—”

“ **So certain are you?** ” Alec cut him off. The man looked confused.

“The bomb incinerated her. Left nothing but bones. Trust me, Poison Ivy is finally gone for good.”

Alec laughed, a rumbling sound like heavy stones grinding on stones. He waded over to where the man was sitting, and the man stood, taking a step back, licking his thin lips—a nervous habit he’d had as a human man so long ago. “ **Clearly, you do not know what you ask. What power you seek. It takes more than a human bomb to kill my little sister. You have come out of hiding too soon, played your hand too quickly, I’d say.** ”

“No, you’re lying. I saw the pictures myself. I designed the chemical from her genetic material. She’s dead. She’s gone.” He was trembling in fear, his eyes wide. Alec wanted to smash the man himself, but he held back.

“ **She will come for you. You’ll find no sanctuary here. I think the phrase is, ya done fucked up, Jason Woodrue.** ”

_*Elsewhen*_

Slowly, calmly, she walked through the tall, tall grass. Hip high, she fanned her fingers out and let them caress the tips of the blades as she walked through them, like that man in the movie about Gladiators Harley loved so much. “Are you not entertained?” she asked, rhetorically, since she’d seen no one else since she’d been here.

About that.

She couldn’t say for sure how she’d gotten here, or how long she’d been. Thoughts of her friends, of her enemies, of her mission: they all seemed like wisps of a dream almost forgotten. 

The plants here were quiet. They didn’t speak to her, but it wasn’t like they were holding back in a cruel way. She got the impression they were all holding her breaths, like people being quiet to say ‘Surprise!’ at a party. It wasn’t entirely disconcerting, but it was different.

Something changed.

She was walking on a path. A hiking trail, and it was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it, at least until she came upon a clearing.

She knew this place.

Long ago, before the fighting and the drink, when she was a tiny little girl and Daddy was just a concept of a big man who visited occasionally, and not the distant, bitter creature he became later, they brought her to this place. The clearing at the end of the trail. There was a picnic table, a fossilized, rusty old stand alone grill, and a tire swing someone had put up on the arm of a gnarled, ancient oak. They brought her here because the canopy kept the cruel sunlight off her sensitive skin, and it was cool here in the shade. She’d loved to sit in the swing, being pushed by her Daddy, chasing and being chased by the old yellow dog. It was the last time she could remember truly being happy.

Well, until she’d met Harley and Selina. Until she’d made a new family.

There was a table cloth on the little picnic table, and a girl was sitting there. Ivy didn’t know her, had never seen her, but right away, she knew who she was. She was pretty and delicate, her skin very pale, with dark hair and heavily made up eyes, punctuated by an eye of horus design in the corner of one, wearing a simple outfit of black leather and lace. 

She was goth, and a silver ankh hung on chain around her neck, resting on her breast.

Poison Ivy smiled at her, ready for this conversation at last, and the girl chirped, “Hi! Can we talk?”

Ivy gestured at the girl’s antique tea service. “Is there tea?”


	2. The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to die.
> 
> It's far more difficult to live.
> 
> Poison Ivy has never been one to back down from a challenge.

For a long moment, Ivy scrutinized the young girl, who was casually pouring tea into a cup of fine china. Her nose was telling her it was a pretty common blend, an Earl Grey with a hint of jasmine maybe, but she sat, crossed her long legs and smiled as the girl asked her, “Mmkay, how do you take it?”

“I like it with a tea spoon of honey and one of those scones.” She indicated the plate. “The strawberry one, if you please.”

The girl complied, passing over a saucer with her cup of tea and a small plate with the requested sweet. “I have to say, you are taking this in stride. Most people aren’t nearly so calm.” She had a slight British accent. Her voice was pleasant.

“Well,” Ivy said as she lightly stirred her cup of tea. “I presume you are who I think you are? D—” 

The girl interrupted her. “I am. That doesn’t upset you?”

“Not particularly. I knew this meeting was coming, everyone is subject to the Cycle of Life and Death and, given my lifestyle, I knew my time would come sooner or later.”

The girl took a sip of tea and winced, then blew softly across the surface of her drink. “Well, that’s very enlightened of you. Most people want more time…you have no regrets?”

Ivy tilted her head and thought about it and tried a sip of her own tea. It was near boiling, so she gently placed the cup down. “Well, I have regrets, but it’s a bit late to worry about that now.” She pursed her lips. “I have to say you are not what I was expecting.”

She seemed amused by this, her black lips quirking up. “Oh? What did you expect?”

Ivy shrugged and picked up her scone, gently tearing a bite sized piece off with the tips of her fingers. “I don’t know. Big, imposing, scary guy in a cloak, a scythe?”

“Would you feel more comfortable if I was like that?”

“No. No this is good. I can handle my Grim Reaper being a cute goth girl.” Ivy smirked at her, flirtatiously, and delicately took a bite. Idly, she wondered if there were cosmic consequences for flirting with Death.

She laughed at that and took a sip. “You don’t actually believe this conversation is happening, do you?”

“No, not even a little bit.” Ivy smiled back. The strawberry was really rich and sweet. She liked it. “I assume I’m dying, and this is all the last of my neurons firing as my body expires.”

The girl shook her head. “Oh, Pamela, no. There aren’t any neurons to fire. The bomb coated you with burning plasma…it incinerated you almost instantly. There wasn’t much left but charred bones. Ivy stared at her for a few moments and then shrugged.

“Well, I never really thought about it. Prior to my accident, I believed in nothing I couldn’t quantify with my five senses, but in the interim I’ve learned that there is a whole world I can’t describe using the scientific method. So perhaps you are real. I guess I have to ask, what’s next? Do you take me to the hereafter?”

“Well, normally I’d escort you to what is next, but no, in your case, I’m afraid we’re just going to have a bit of a conversation.”

Ivy was quiet. “You’re saying I’m not actually dead?”

“Oh no, you’re quite dead, Pamela. You’re just not done.” Calmly, Death fixed her with a gaze and took a long sip of tea.

For a moment, a crushing sense of disappointment flashed through her head. Her voice breaking, she answered, “What exactly are you saying? I’m not allowed to die?”

“Well, we’re coming up on why we’re having this conversation. I’m here to talk to you about choice.”

“You’re saying I have a choice about dying?”

“In a way.” The girl selected a scone of her own, blueberry, Ivy noted, and took a delicate bite. “What happened to you, Pamela, wasn’t an accident. You were chosen, selected, to serve the Green. You were given a destiny.”

“I don’t believe in predestination, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“But, you took to that calling with relish, did you not?”

“I did. I fought, I suffered, I did everything that was asked of me. I died, evidently, serving the Green, and now you’re telling me I don’t even get to have a little peace?” A note of bitterness had crept into her voice as she spoke, and she folded her hands in her lap and paused to take a deep breath, that feeling of disappointment settling in the pit of her stomach.

The girl chewed and swallowed, then washed her bite down with a small drink of tea. She fixed Ivy with a look. “Is that what you want, Pamela? Peace?”

“Maybe.” Ivy grumbled, still looking down at her hands. “I’m tired. I’m tired of struggling.” She looked up at the girl. “No matter how much I fought, I was pushed back two steps for every step forward I took. I was a figure of mockery. I couldn’t even get my own best friend, the woman I loved, to stand with me, to choose me. What did I accomplish? Failed scientist. Failed ‘supervillain,’” she made finger quotes as she said it, “My activism caused more damage than it helped. My personal life was a train wreck. My own daughters abandoned me as soon as they had opportunity.”

“Are you done?”

“With what?”

“That pity party.” She sighed at the look Ivy flashed her and then continued, not unkindly, “Look, Pamela. Everyone has a crisis of faith. Everyone is entitled to an off day. You just died, you’ve earned one.”

Quietly, Ivy pulled another bite of scone off, ate it, chewing thoughtfully. The girl returned to her tea, and there was a pregnant silence. “You mentioned a choice?” Ivy asked.

“Yes, you have a choice, Pamela. You have the same choice everyone else has, writ large. Every person, every animal, and yes, every plant, gets to make a choice on every day they wake up: Do you live, or do you die? Because Pamela,” and she leaned forward, the ankh on her necklace swinging forward, away from her body, and she put her warm hand on top of Ivy’s, “you have that choice facing you. Do you live, or do you die? You say you’re tired of fighting, and I get that, but that’s the easy road, Pamela. You’ve been many things in your life, but you’ve never been a coward.”

Ivy sneered. “I’m no coward. I’m tired, I’m not afraid. I’ve done my best, and what have I gotten out of it?”

The girl smiled, sadly. “You’ve gotten what everyone gets. Life. Beautiful and haunting, poignant and banal, fun, sad, pleasurable, agonizing. Good times and bad times, as trite as that sounds. Did you think—did you even want—it to be easy? You have always taken the road less traveled, you’ve always chosen the thorns rather than the easy path. You’re a fighter, Pamela. It’s in your very nature.”

Ivy sat back, drained her tea, and set the cup down. “And if I choose to live?”

The girl shrugged, her dark eyes glittering, and for the first time Ivy realized that despite appearances, she was talking to something that had been around since the dawn of time and would be around until the end of all things. It shook her. “You’ll be reborn. It will be painful—birth always is—but you will get something almost no one else gets, Pamela. A second chance.”

There was a long pause as Ivy chewed her lip in thought, looking off. After a few moments, the girl asked, “You’re not going to ask what happens if you choose to die?”

“We both know I won’t. I don’t have it in me to quit.”

“No, I didn’t think you would,” the girl said and finished her tea. “I think you’re making the right choice, for what it’s worth. At the end of the day, despite all the pain, Life…life is pretty neat, I think.”

Ivy stood, stretched. “Well, let’s get on with it then. I have things to do.”

“No rest for the wicked?” the girl asked, a smirk on her dark lips.

“Something like that…”

***

Greg snorted when Jim shook him awake. The older man always woke at the crack of dawn, did his rounds in the cemetery before breakfast. He told Greg once that he liked to nap in the afternoon sunshine if there were no other tasks, like digging holes, for the day. Greg preferred to sleep in, do his rounds in the early evenings, but Jim had done it Jim’s way for going on forty years. 

At any rate, Greg was staring at Jim, trying to wake up. The older guy muttered, “May want to get the bobcat warmed up, we’re going to have some cleanup on the hill later.” He turned and left, carrying a blanket and a couple bottles of water. The old guy was an odd one, Greg thought. Creepy.

“What do you mean mess? Did those high school kids vandalize headstones again? I’m telling you we need a dog…”

Jim paused and looked back at him. “Oh, no, nothing like that. She’s coming back today, she’s going to make a mess when she does. He serenely nodded at the nightstand next to Greg’s bed, and then left.

Not comprehending, Greg turned and stared at the clock, the lamp, the little potted geranium—the flower that was straightening proudly, blooming, right before his eyes. He felt a stab of unease and then yelled, “Holy fuck!” when the roots burst from the little terra cotta pot as it grew more in twenty seconds than it had the last twenty days. He turned with wide eyes and started after Jim, his words ringing in his ears.

“She’s coming back.”


	3. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They missed her.
> 
> Gotham missed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always written Ivy as powerful, and that's not to everyone's taste. I don't hold back here.

Maybe it was apocryphal, but many said that the night Poison Ivy was killed, every plant in Gotham wilted. Blooms fell off. The Gotham Botanical Gardens closed the next day because the plants all looked like they were next to death’s door. It was as though every green, growing thing in the city mourned for their lost champion, their friend, their mother. 

Sandy and Lacey McClain remembered that night. Their little flower shop, Green Times are Good Times, was on the very edge of the Narrows, and they did pretty solid business normally but still struggled to make rent, their protection payment, and have enough left over to eat well, especially outside of traditional holidays for flowers (Memorial Day, Valentine’s Day, etc) so when every bit of their inventory became unsaleable, they barely made it through the month. 

They’d recovered, at least. Somehow, Green Times had limped on, and here, 9 months later, as summer was beginning to creep into the city, Sandy was in the back, re-potting some begonias, and Lacey was doing an arrangement for a wedding. Wedding season was always brisk business, and both sisters were happy for the work. 

It started, as memorable events often do, with something subtle. She was placing a sunflower, slipping the clipped stem into the narrow vase’s mouth without looking, and encountered resistance. The flower didn’t go into the bottle, and when she turned her head to look at what she was doing, she realized the stem had grown sudden roots, right at the clipped edge.

Growing.

“What the—” she muttered. She felt a little thrill go up her spine as, right before her eyes, the roots were growing larger, stretching out. The yellow blades of the flower petals were growing, filling out, practically glowing with health. The whole plant was writhing in her gloved hand, and Lacey dropped it, backing up. She was dimly aware of Sandy yelling in the back but all she could focus on was the shop.

Every plant in the place was growing, blooming, stretching out. Her mouth dropped open in shock as Sandy came running out of the back, her face pale, and skidded to a stop next to her.

“Oh my God. What’s happening?”

Lacey couldn’t answer, but somehow, she wasn’t afraid.

***

Mr. Larch was an old man, and he had a routine.

Everyday, at precisely 12:30, Mr. Larch would suspend his computer and start his lunch hour. He’d take the elevator down to the first floor, get a coffee and a bagel from the little cart in the first floor lobby, and he’d eat and play on his phone on a bench just inside Robinson Park’s West entrance. He’d done this for over twenty years, and the only things that kept him from his favorite bench were freezing cold and the horrible, smelly, rain that had gripped Gotham for months, but today, as he got his coffee, he saw blue sky. A brisk, western breeze had blown the gloomy clouds out of the city, so with a grin and a spring to his step, Mr. Larch sat on his bench and settled back to enjoy his bagel.

He was sipping his coffee when saw the first blossom pop out of the grass. One minute the grass was waving in the breeze, the next the little blue flower just opened up, straightened up, and stretched toward the warm sunshine. It happened in a matter of seconds, and for a long moment, Mr. Larch just stared.

Then a second appeared. A third. There was a red blossom. A yellow. A brilliant purple. Inside of a minute, the entire field was dotted with the little blossoms. Mr. Larch stood slowly as, within a few more minutes, he was surrounded in a kaleidescope of blossoms, a riot of color, and he found himself grinning.

Mr. Larch could remember when the Park had looked like this every day. He could remember as a boy coming to the park to play baseball, blowing dandelions and eating honeysuckle, playing among the solid, dependable trees and wildflowers, back before the never ending smog and gloom, before the ground was covered in used condoms and needles.

All around him, the park was growing, pulsing with new life, the green things reclaiming everything around him. Mr. Larch plucked a brand new yellow honeysuckle blossom from the back of the bench he’d been sitting on, a mass of honeysuckle that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago, and dabbed the nectar on his tongue and just like that, he was ten years old again, playing hooky from school, with his whole life ahead of him.

It tasted sweet.

***

“Master Bruce, Master Bruce!”

Bruce looked up from his routine on the Muk Yan Jong, a traditional wooden practice dummy, in alarm. Alfred was one of the most even tempered men he’d ever met. Unflappable. He raced into the cave, worked up into a level of excitement Bruce hadn’t seen in a decade or more. Alarmed, he snatched a towel and vaulted up a flight of stares.

“Alfred! What is it?”

Alfred was breathing hard, his face red, and suddenly Bruce was more concerned with the man’s health than his news. Alfred was not a young man. Struggling to catch his breath, Alfred managed, “You have to…you have to come quick. You have to see.”

Bruce placed a steady, strong hand on the man’s shoulder. “Alfred, just tell me.”

With a start, he realized there were tears in Alfred’s eyes. He just shook his head. “No, Master Bruce. This is something you need to see for yourself.

The butler, the friend, the surrogate father led him through the mansion, out the northern wing into the gardens. For decades, the rose bushes had grown here, dormant. They were lucky to see a single blossom a season, and Alfred had struggled to keep them alive and healthy. They were special, these roses, bred and cultivated by Martha Wayne, a strain from the native wild thorny rose that had once grown in thick clusters all over what was now Gotham but were now, for all intents and purposes, extinct (with a genetic sample at the Botanical Gardens and a single specimen still in the possession of…)

Bruce gasped as he made the connection.

As far as he could see, every rose bush had gloriously bloomed out, thick, silky, crimson blossoms with a unique fragrance that now perfumed the whole house. As he glanced around, he could see they weren’t alone—the entire garden was growing, the hedges throwing off their neat trimming and growing wild, a rainbow of new blossoms festooning everything, even the crown of the beautiful silver maple tree just outside Damian’s window had doubled in moments, proud leaves fluttering in the breeze.

“It’s a miracle,” said Alfred.

Bruce didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, past the lump in his throat.

_“Bruuuuce,” Martha called, getting up from where she’d been digging in the soil and pulling off her gardening gloves. “Where’s BRUCE?” She suddenly snatched the little boy up from his hiding place behind a hedge, tickling him. He wriggled, giggling, and she set him on his feet and let him awkwardly streak off. He was dressed only in a pull up and covered from head to toe with dirt—something Thomas didn’t approve of—but he couldn’t argue with her. ‘Little boys are supposed to get dirty, Thomas,’ she’d admonished._

_Bruce liked to play out here in the sunshine when she was working on her roses, which, she noted proudly, were coming in nicely._

_He was too far ahead of her to stop when he saw a particularly pretty blossom and grabbed at it with one chubby hand. It took holding him close and singing to calm him down and stop his crying when the thorns bit cruelly into him. He’d muttered, “Ow, ow, ow, ow,” repeatedly, holding up the pricks to be kissed better. She’d obliged._

_“You have to remember, little man, that even the most beautiful things sometimes have to protect themselves and be dangerous.”  
_

“What does it mean, father?” Damian had a serious look on his face, arms crossed. Damian always looked serious, and Bruce felt more hate for Talia’s theft of his childhood settle in his heart. Damian had never had a chance to play in the dirt wearing just a pull up.

Bruce stamped down on his emotions--used his legendary self-control to master his mental state. “These roses were your grandmother’s. They have immense sentimental value. If I had to guess, I’d guess that the reports of someone’s death we’d gotten were grossly exaggerated.”

Damian nodded. Alfred sat down, a smile on his normally stoic face, and Bruce breathed in the scent of blooming Rosacea marthas, the scent of happiness, the scent of home.  
The scent of mother.

***

The pit was dark. As black as night, even Waylon’s animal eyes couldn’t pierce it. He’d been in the pit for so long, he didn’t really need his eyes, and sometimes he wondered if they’d keep him down here for so long he’d turn blind and white, like those cave fish in Arkansas. 

He still had his nose, so when they dumped his daily bucket of blood, bone, and bits of meat, it was easy enough to find. He trusted his nose, knew when the meat was bringing him his bucket, knew what they’d had for lunch, how much cologne they were wearing, who’d had sex the night before. He trusted his nose far more than he trusted his eyes when he was in the pit.

So, he could be excused for not immediately noticing the light. It started subtly—a glow that slowly built until Waylon sat up, realizing he could see his hand. The walls were softly glowing, and Waylon suddenly knew…

_The group sessions were ridiculous. Most of them couldn’t be trusted to be free to move. Croc was strapped so tightly to a titanium gurney he doubted Superman could have gotten free. He had a muzzle on and could barely speak around the cage over his snout. He hated group. The Joker monopolized the whole thing, capering and preening to his captive audience. Croc hated him. Someday, he’d suck the marrow out of the scrawny little shit’s bones._

_She was different from them. She didn’t belong, like a beautiful orchid left amongst a pile of human shit. They all stared when she was wheeled in, strapped down to a wheelchair. They’d all been warned not to get within touching distance—she was toxic. Croc had just stared at her, drinking in the sight of a beautiful woman like a dying man in the desert finding an oasis. It wasn’t just her looks. They all smelled like meat to him. Food. She didn’t—she smelled of mint and magnolias, of lazy afternoons in the thick humidity of the swamps, buzzing insects, splashing water, musty earth._

_They forced him to interact. He spoke haltingly in his thick accent and around his jagged teeth. When it was her turned she simply ignored the Doctor, like a Goddess disinterested in the actions of a mere mortal. Eventually he gave up and moved on, and while the skinny nerd, Nygma, was talking, she spoke to him in her beautiful, musical voice in perfect, fluent French._

_“You’re Cajun? Do you speak French?” she asked, not actually looking at him._

_“I do.”_

_“What’s your name?”_

_“They call me Croc. Killer Croc.” He tried to flash her his terrifying grin. He’d learned long ago that if the only reaction he could get out of people was fear, he’d become the scariest motherfucker around—he’d revel in their fear._

_If she was afraid, she showed no real sign of it. “I’m Pamela. Now, what’s your real name?”_

_He stared at her profile for a long moment. She gazed ahead, pretending to care what Crane was saying about fear. “Waylon. Jones. Nobody calls me that. I’m a freak, so I’m Croc.”_

_She turned and looked at him, her green eyes were intense. “You’re not a freak, Waylon. You’re magnificent. Look at them.” She indicated the rest of the group with her chin. “They know. They know people like us represent their end. Evolution is overtaking them, and deep inside their scared little monkey brains, they know we, the ‘freaks,’ are their superiors. They’re frauds, and their days of dressing like bats or clowns to scare the normals are coming to an end. So they lock us away and hope they can keep us there, but Waylon,” and she looked back at him, “They can’t…they won’t…keep us locked away forever.” At his grin, she looked him up and down, her eyes practically glowing. “You come from another time, Waylon. You’re not a freak, you’re a king. A beast king who remembers what it was like when life was raw and short and bloody, when great beasts lived and fought and fucked and died in a primeval Eden, and their ancestors were little more than rats huddling in the dark. Never forget, you are an apex predator, and these sniveling cowards are your prey.”_

_Croc—no, Waylon—stared at her for a long moment. “If you ever need me, I’m yours.”_

_“I know,” she said with perfect confidence, and he couldn’t help but grin. Goddamn this woman had bigger balls than anyone in this Asylum.  
_

He’d heard the news, of course. The guards knew how he felt about Ivy, though they thought it was a crush. Oh, she was beautiful, but you didn’t love a Goddess because you wanted to be with her. She wasn’t for the likes of Killer Croc. No, he loved her because she was a Goddess. The guards still loved calling the news down to him…that she’d been killed. Waylon knew better.

You couldn’t kill a Goddess.

So when the walls began to glow with the bio-luminescent algae she’d created using nothing but the mold and spores of her cell so many years ago, he knew she was alive. He knew she was back.

Waylon, no, Killer Croc, threw his head back and roared for sheer love of life.

***

Selina hated TV.

At least when Harley was around, she insisted on as many channels as possible. Cable, or satellite, never occurred to Selina until she was bored and wanting to veg, and that’s where she was today, a boring day. Harley was in New York, Bruce was asleep, probably, Batman had been busy recently, and she didn’t even have the motivation to go catting about. No big scores on the horizon, and just doing the vigilante thing was boring these days now that there were like a zillion other vigilantes in Gotham running around.

Seriously Bruce needed to spread them around a bit.

She was flipping channels when Isis began to meow. She rolled her eyes, and the sleek, black cat hopped up on her, kneading with her claws as she strolled up Selina’s body.  
“Ow, dammit, what do you want?” she said with affection and collected the cat, pulling her close and kissing her, hearing her purr. She seemed—agitated—and that was when Selina noticed the other cats meowing. She had, what, seven now? The number varied, she was always bringing home a stray and many of them tended to come and go as they pleased. Sitting up, she could see the cats were all clustered around her window, meowing at the potted cactus Ivy’d given her so long ago, declaring she was hopeless with plants and that she challenged Selina to kill his one.

She let Isis go and sat up, her whole body flushing with adrenaline.

That cactus had doubled in size. In fact, as she watched it grew even more, and little white blossoms were forming all over it, opening to the sun. “Oh my God,” she muttered and stood, going to the window. Mrs. Carmody lived one apartment over and down, and her fire escape was well known to be a veritable sky garden of potted plants. Selina stuck her head out and sure enough, Mrs. Carmody’s fire escape was choked with growing plants, green overtaking the whole rusted, skeletal metal platform, winding ivy running along the bars. Everywhere she looked, plants were growing, blooming, stretching toward the sun.

Celebrating.

Selina put a hand to her mouth and felt her eyes flood. “No way,” she murmured. She could feel it in the air. Gotham smelled…cleaner. The clouds had peeled back, a clean breeze cooling off the early summer heat.

She vaulted the couch, turning on the local channel and caught the cameras panning over the Gotham Botanical Gardens, where thickly growing plants had completely overtaken the building. The young brunette news caster was stammering, trying to describe what she was seeing.

She scrambled, tossing blankets, dirty clothes, and ratty couch cushions aside as she searched for her phone. She whooped when she found it, fingers trembling as she hit favorites and started to text Harley.

No.

This needed more than a text. She hit dial. Four rings.

“Hey hey, it’s Harley!”

“Harley!” Selina tried not to scream it. 

“KITTY! What’s up girlfriend?”

“Harley, you need to drop what you’re doing and book a flight to Gotham. Do it now, text me the deets and I’ll come pick you up.”

“What? Why? What’s going on, Kitty? Is everything ok?”

“Everything is good. I’ll explain when you get here, but get here fast, Harls.”

“I, of course. I’m booking now, but Kitty? Are we going to war? What should I pack?”

Selina laughed, and it was mixed with a sob. “Tissues.”

***

Jim Gordon wasn’t supposed to smoke, and as far as Barbara was concerned, he didn’t. His last, final hiding place was just under the surface of the soil in the potted ficus in his office, so he felt more than a little betrayed when his hidden pack of cigarettes suddenly hit the floor and Barbara whirled to see them. She whirled back, eyes angry and accusing. “DAD.” She started, but Jim was staring. No one had been near that plant. What made them pop out?

“Barb, look.” He pointed a trembling finger and she whirled back in time to see the ficus growing, roots crawling over the lip of the pot and trembling leaves reaching for the sunlight that was streaming through the blinds.

“Holy shit,” Babs muttered, and then winced.

“Language.” He said, but he put his arm around her shoulders and the Gordons quietly watched as the ficus tripled in size, breaking free of its pot. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

Babs nodded slowly. “I think it’s a pretty safe bet.”

***

Tippi left the bottle of wine, a seventy year old red that went for five hundred a bottle at the Iceberg Lounge, and excused herself. Oswald locked the door behind her. He took his time setting out a glass and selecting a cigar, cuban, that went for more on the street than heroin.

He’d been watching the news all day, and he’d understood what it meant. He sat with a groan, his limbs aching, and worked the corkscrew with simple, practiced ease. Oswald poured. Then he lit the cigar, took a few appreciative puffs, and left it in the ashtray.

He leaned down and opened the bottom desk drawer, a drawer that was thumb print protected as well as physically locked. Inside were precious things to him, but not necessarily valuable. A framed picture of his mother. The handle of his first umbrella. The scrapbook.

He pulled that out reverently and slowly opened it, paging through it and letting his fingers drift over the photos, the newspaper clippings. He’d been keeping it for years in total secrecy. No one knew, of course. They wouldn’t understand, and it was vital the Penguin projected a certain image. Under no circumstances could she ever find out about it…just the thought of her discovering it made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

He had made himself the most powerful man in Gotham, crawled and murdered and stole to acquire more power than anyone. He could snap his fingers and almost any woman in the city would ignore how short, lame, and ugly he was. He loved that…reveled in it.

But not her.

She didn’t notice him, not really. He was beneath her. Men like him didn’t get women like her. It didn’t matter, he supposed. He’d loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, understanding more than anyone that she was a unique creature. He’d watched from afar for years, no one suspecting. Well, maybe Harley Quinn, who was much more astute than people realized when she wasn't playing the fool. He’d seen her giving him a funny look when he’d comped them a bottle of wine or lingered just a bit too long on those occasions when Harley or Selina had managed to drag her to the club.

Just to be in her presence. Smell her hair. Hear her deep, musical voice. He supposed it was creepy behavior. Stalker behavior. Oswald knew he'd never act, he didn't feel entitled to her. Just seeing her was a privilege.

He paused in his paging through the book. The photo had been taken on a New Years Eve. Harley and Selina were in the background, drunk, dirty dancing. He was sitting, hair askew, and she was sitting in his lap with an expression on her face that looked like she wanted to roll her eyes, a smirk on her lips. She’d just kissed his bald head and left a green lipstick mark. Subconsciously, Oswald ran his fingers over that spot on his head. One of his staff had snapped it with a cell phone…he’d had to get that picture and made sure no one else ever saw it, because in it, it was clear he was gazing up at her like a lovesick schoolboy.

She was oblivious, thankfully.

He paged to the end, to the last entry of the book. The obituary. The newsprint was simple, and the obituary was painfully short. Far too short for who she was. He’d sneered at that, angry when he’d first read it. Now it was hard to read, the ink was smeared because it had been wet when he was fumbling it in. He’d tried not to cry on it.

Now, Oswald smiled and added several new, fresh pages to the book, because he knew more was coming.

Closing the book, he raised his glass of wine to the TV.

“Welcome back, dear lady.”

***

Far away, deep in the swamps of Louisiana, the creature called Swamp Thing lifted his head, his concentration disrupted. Rose had been weaving vines together, braiding them like rope, as practice and she suddenly clutched her head, eyes wide. Thorn and Hazel, who were watching and waiting for their turns, also cried out and looked to him.

“What’s going on?” Hazel demanded.

**“My little sister, your mother, is back, little ones.”** His voice rumbled, and the girls began to cheer, Rose going so far as to do a little impromptu dance. Alec smiled as felt the ripples through the Green and allowed himself to be happy for the girls, even though he knew what it meant. 

Poison Ivy was needed for the coming storm. Always, happiness was tempered with pain, he reflected.

***

Jason Woodrue stormed into the front office of the Vivre corporation, the pharmaceutical research company he’d helped found, and demanded answers. Answers no one was able to give him. She was, without a doubt, dead. The formula worked. By the time he made it to his office, he was trembling in rage.

He was trembling in fear. 

To calm himself, he fished the thumbdrive out of his desk and plugged it into his laptop. The video feed of Pamela Isley being transformed never failed to calm him, seeing her as she was. A victim. Helpless. In pain. He didn’t have to be afraid of this pathetic little waif. He had the power here…

Didn’t he?

***

By the time Greg caught up with Jim, a thick mass of roots had literally exploded the soil of the grave out. He was there just in time to catch a glimpse of the underground pod. It looked like something a green bean would come out of, but the surface was translucent and glowing with a steady, green light, and silhouetting a slim, feminine figure deep within. The figure moved, a hand, slim and pale, digging its way out of the weird, alien looking plant matter and she stood. Jim helped her out and held the blanket out to her.

Soaked in green goop, blood red hair plastered to her head, Greg still knew he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Welcome back,” Jim said, offering her one of the bottles of water.

She took it, drank it down in seconds and handed the empty bottle back to him, taking the second and twisting the cap off.

“Thank you,” she said with a faint smile. “Make sure you recycle these.” Jim nodded as she pulled the blanket around her slender shoulders. Around her, the whole cemetery was in full bloom, flowers proudly reaching for the sun, the Willow tree had tripled in size, the crown massive.

Greg spoke up, hesitantly. “What will you do?”

She didn’t look at him, but started marching down the hill, head held high. 

“Get to work.”


	4. Kissing on Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time is like the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, but I had to work on the day of...
> 
> The quote for reference:
> 
> “Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”

Harley Quinn was no stranger to kissing.

Her first had come from a boy with the unfortunate name Nelson Goldberg. She was eleven, he was ten, and she remembered it being weird, gross, slobbery, and vaguely sacrilegious, given that they did it behind the synagogue. That hadn't gone so well, and the last she checked, Nelson was a moderately successful accountant, owned his own firm, and was a solid member of the Jewish community. Her grandma would have approved of Nelson.

Harley wasn't quite so solid.

She'd tried more kissing as she grew older. Kissing partners weren't hard to find, actually, once she'd grown into a perky, petite blonde on the cheerleading squad. She was cute, she was peppy, and her name was written on bathroom stalls and she was a favorite fantasy among the high school boys--she was an Olympic prospect in gymnastics, after all. She was limber and well built, if not particularly curvy (she had a nice butt, she thought, but compared to her current peers the girls just seemed underwhelming.)

She dated, she kissed a lot of guys, she even slept with several, but she really didn't get terribly involved in the torrid high school affairs her friends were so wrapped up in. From very early on, Harley Quinzel knew she was meant for more. She was going to get out before she found herself married to an accountant and attending services with her little brood of screaming brats. That was not for her.

In college she stayed focused on her goal, but for Harley it was more about networking and connections than study. She learned that many of her professors had a taste for perky blondes with tight bodies, and she wasn't shy about using said body to get the grades without putting in the slog of work--not that she was dumb or unable to. She preferred to focus her energy elsewhere, and if slipping under Dr. Swopes desk for a few unflattering moments got her an A and freed up her weekend from long, boring studying and paper writing, so be it. 

Older guys tended to kiss better anyway.

She experimented a little with kissing girls, but like everything else in her life at that time, it was calculated. Kissing a girl was something you did at parties, while boys were watching, when there was drinking involved. Sober interest in the same sex was social suicide in the sorority, and the right sorority was tantamount to her getting the internships she wanted. Harley was, of course, perfectly straight.

Right?

Then there was HIM. He never really kissed her, not like that, though at times she'd claimed otherwise. She'd managed to get lips on lips a few times, but the fact she'd shared a more passionate kiss with the BAT of all people ate at her. She tried not to take it personally, but it was another brick in the wall of textbook attacks on her self esteem he seemed to enjoy so much. Ironically, her fall into his abyss definitely counted as being meant for more than boring wife and mother.

Then of course, there was HER.

God, she could kiss. It first happened early on, long before they were...well...whatever they were--back before they were even really friends. Partners in crime...

Then

_"No, seriously Harley, you did well tonight." Ivy glanced over at her and smiled reassuringly._

_Harley was hurt. There were more guards than they'd originally counted, and this guy'd had a Rambo fetish. He'd burst in, a pump twelve gauge leveled. Ivy, clad in her sexy latex fetish outfit, had stumbled on her insanely high heels--seriously who commits a robbery in 7 inch, thigh-high stiletto boots?! There was no way she could hit cover in time. In fact, time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Harley leaped, hitting Ivy and dropping them both to the floor, but not before she caught the edge of the spread pattern in the meat of her thigh. A half second later and that shot would have taken her leg off. He was pumping the gun when Ivy's vine hit him, sheering him in half in dramatic fashion, and then she was tending to Harley's leg, cool and professional--the Ivy Harley had seen working in the lab. It was reassuring._

_Now she was huddled in the passenger seat of the car, whatever powder Ivy'd dumped on the shredded flesh of her leg had stopped the bleeding, but Harley was woozy from blood loss and her head was lolling. "Well thanks, Red, but I'm bleedin' all over ya seats."_

_"Don't worry about that, I'll clean them later, right now, I need you to keep talking to me, I think you're in shock." Ivy's voice was deep and breathey, and Harley liked it. Her new partner smelled good and had a nice voice. She was nice. She treated Harley like an equal, not a prop._

_Harley shook her head to try and wake up. She was getting loopy. Er. Loopier. More loopy than normal. She focused on Ivy, the way the car heater was causing her red curls to flutter. The redhead's perfect profile. The way she pursed her lips while driving. How silly it was she was wearing green latex opera gloves and driving a Prius like it was the most normal thing in the world. She stifled a giggle. How did Ivy have such perfect brows?_

_Then Ivy was helping her inside, one arm around her waist, and the other holding onto the arm Harley had around her shoulders. The little suburban house was totally unremarkable but for the exotic garden in the backyard, hidden by an 8 foot privacy fence from the neighbors. Ivy used a helpful vine to unlock the door, and then Harley was lying on a couch and Ivy was tearing her own latex jester outfit off. Harley felt a moment of panic--Ivy'd never seen her outside the suit, never seen the scars. The price of being with Mr. J._

_Ivy didn't say anything, but Harley was still with it enough to see the tightening of her expression when she freed the leg and saw the razor marks. The half healed bruises. Harley wanted to hide. She wanted Ivy to like her, to respect her. She couldn't bear the thought of Ivy thinking less of her, and for the life of her, Harley didn't know why it suddenly mattered to her. Ivy stripped off her gloves, kicked off her boots, and worked on her leg for what seemed like hours._

_Harley slept. There were no dreams. No Mr. J leering at her from the darkness. Just warmth and safety and the sweet smell of lavender._

_Ivy gently woke her, and she realized sunlight was streaming in the eastern windows. Ivy was wearing a tee shirt with a cartoon sunflower on it that was smiling and the caption said "Rise and Shine!"_

_"Hey sleepyhead," Ivy said, her voice soft, her hair in a messy updo with cute flyaways and the sunlight turning it into a glorious nimbus of crimson fire._

_Harley smiled and tried to sit up, but Ivy immediately put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head. "Hey, Red. How long was I out?"_

_"Just a few hours. I wanted to wake you to ask your permission to take off the makeup and the mask before letting you sleep off the rest of the healing process."_

_"Oh. Uhm. Sure, it ain't like ya don't know who I am." Harley grinned, and Ivy smiled down at her. Harley loved her eyes--especially when they were smoldering like this._

_"You took a bullet for me tonight, Harley. I didn't need you to, but that means something to me. I won't forget it."_

_Harley swallowed. Her throat was dry and her voice sounded scratchy and weak to her ears. "Hey, it's ok, Red. We got each others' back, right? We're partners."_

_"We are." Ivy agreed and then she began to carefully remove the makeup, the mask, the hood. She even took off Harley's costume, and Harley was too wiped out to protest. Ivy lingered, fingertips tracing over some of Harley's scars, her eyes distant. Harley bit her lip, watching her anxiously. "Harley, right now you need to heal and rest, but we're going to have a conversation about this."_

_"Yeah, I know, Red." Ivy met her gaze._

_"This isn't your fault. I'm not judging you. I want you to know that."_

_"Oh, yeah, I know." Harley tried a smile on, and Ivy smiled back._

_"Ok, time for you to sleep."_

_She blurted it out before she could stop herself. "Will ya still be here when I wake up?"_

_Ivy nodded. "I'll never leave you behind, Harley." She leaned in and before Harley Quinn could do so much as gasp, Poison Ivy kissed her._

_Bliss._

_Harley realized, right then and there, in that moment, she'd never really been kissed. She'd just gone through the motions. Ivy's lips were soft, and just the right amount of wet. She tasted sweet, like the honeysuckle Harley used to eat that grew along the broken fence line near the abandoned lot she'd played as a kid. Her kiss was intense, meaningful. It was sunshine and destiny and lazy summer evenings watching her brother play stickball while playing with her tattered barbie. It was decadent pleasure and sensual excess and wholesome as her grandma's apple cinnamon pie. She wanted it to never end, and when Ivy broke it, she felt a tear run down her cheek._

_"Good night, sweet pea."_

_Harley liked that name._

Now

Selina picked her up at the airport in Gotham. 

"Kitty!" she'd yelled and then she was hugging her. Selina still hadn't explained what was going on, and her face was giving nothing away behind her five hundred dollar sunglasses. 

"You got any luggage?" Selina asked as they started toward baggage claim, and Harley shook her head.

"Nah, just a carry-on. I didn't know what ta pack. Do we need ta stop and grab some firepower or anything?"

"No, sweetie, just get in."

Harley chattered during the drive. Selina was quiet. They hadn't spoken much since the funeral. Harley wasn't over it--she'd never be over it--but things had started to go back to normal. Still, she felt awkward talking to Selina, and yet...Selina was acting weird. Like she was fighting a smile. 

When they took the bridge out of the city, Harley started to question her, but Selina just shushed her. When they turned down the country road where...where she was...buried, Harley inwardly cringed.

"Oh, Selina, no. I don't...I don't think I can handle it. Not today. Please. Let's not." She was getting choked up. Nine months, and just thinking about that willow tree on the hill would have her crying like a baby...

"Just, sit tight, Harls. All will be made..." Selina paused, and then she grinned. "Right on time."

"Right what on time?" Harley asked, and she followed Selina's gaze.

Certain moments in your life get seared into your brain. Harley remembered that terrible night she'd first put on the costume, broke HIM out of Arkham. Every minute detail. This? This went beyond that. This was a blur. Harley didn't know when she opened the door, or how she made it the several hundred feet to where she was walking, a blanket around her shoulders, her hair flowing behind her. She had no memory of leaping into her arms, of holding her as tight as she possibly could, terrified this was only a dream and she would fade away if she woke up. She wrapped her arms and legs around the woman and sobbed hysterically into her beautiful hair.

She couldn't bear to wake up, she couldn't lose Ivy again, so she buried her face in Ivy's shoulder and breathed in her scent.

Lavender.

She could hear Ivy soothing her, which just made her cry harder. "It's ok, Sweet Pea. I told you once before, I'll never leave you behind."

She pulled back and stared into Ivy's eyes. "You left. You went to a place I couldn't follow. You...you were dead."

Ivy smiled her arrogant I-am-invincible-and-fabulous smile. "It takes more than a bomb to kill me."

Harley laughed through her tears, and then Ivy kissed her.

Bliss.

Among the Sirens, it was a well-known fact that Harley loved the Princess Bride. Everytime they watched it she'd spend days saying 'As you wish' to Ivy and Selina. She'd never really thought about the end passage, the five greatest kisses, but that day she and Ivy added a new one...one that blew the rest away.

All Harley knew for sure was the kiss went on forever and was entirely too short, but it didn't matter, because her Ivy was back, and not even Death could stop her. She vowed right then that there would be a whole helluva lot more kissing.

"Did I miss Valentine's Day?"

"Better late than never."


	5. Giving Your Enemies the Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Sirens to have a little chat with Lex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You just know Harley would be a fan...

Lex Luthor was a busy man, a man with a tight, unforgiving schedule. His secretary, Melanie, was a godsend, and she'd single-handedly kept him focused on what was important on more than one occasion. Every morning, when he started his official work day, Melanie would go over said schedule with him in meticulous detail. He knew what to expect. He could plan, and when Lex Luthor had time to plan, he could accomplish anything.

That's why, in hindsight, he was so surprised when she called him at 10:45 and said in a strange tone, "Mr. Luthor, your eleven o'clock is here."

"What do you mean, I don't have an eleven today, Miss Barnett." 

"I'll show her in, then, Mr. Luthor." Lex blinked in confusion, but that was cleared up when his office door opened and Pamela Isley--Poison Ivy--strolled in.

He'd heard the reports, of course--a rash of unexplained, uncontrolled plant growth had nearly shut down the city of Gotham a few days ago. The tabloids were full of reports of Poison Ivy, dead for almost ten months, being resurrected, so he wasn't entirely surprised to see her. Though his expression was controlled and he showed no outward signs of it, he felt his pulse quicken and a little spike of adrenaline. 

He'd had a hand in things...

**Then

_"No, sorry, I do not accept this, Luthor. You're not pulling out now." Woodrue's voice was nasally. It grated on his nerves, and Lex fought to keep the sneer out of his voice when he answered._

_"Actually, Mr. Woodrue, according to our contract I can terminate the project at any time I wish. It doesn't matter what you accept."_

_"Have a care, Luthor. The goal of this whole affair was to have a viable counter to Poison Ivy. Very soon I'll be assuming her place. I'll be--"_

_"Let me stop you right there. Lexcorp has a vested interest in developing responses to a variety of alien and meta threats, and there is no question Pamela Isley was one of the most lethal women on the planet. Unlike you, I never had any personal interest in harming her." Lex fought to keep from grinding his teeth._

_"Forgive me, but I just don't see you shedding any tears over Poison Ivy being taken off the table." On screen, the man stood and began to pace in his anxiety. Lex felt a measure of contempt he usually reserved for the Riddlers and Tricksters of the world. How did this coward expect to replace a woman like Pam?_

_"Then you're as short sighted as you are weak. I respected Dr. Isley as a brilliant scientist and occasional colleague. You aren't fit to polish her heels." Woodrue flew into a rage, his face coming close to the camera, spittle flecking the screen._

_"You'll regret that, Luthor! I promise you that."_

_"Lexcorp is serving official notice that we're terminating the contract. Vivre corporation is on its own. We invested in a viable counter to her powers, not an assassination via bomb. You violated the provisions of our arrangement. Now I'm terminating this call. Be advised any action against Lexcorp will result in our terminating you."_

_Lex shut his laptop down, angry, and steepled his hands. He was angry with himself. Part of him knew Woodrue would move against Pamela, and he felt an unfamiliar emotion. Guilt. Pamela wasn't his biggest fan, but they had enjoyed something of an understanding for years. Opening his computer back up, he pulled up a file of the defunct Injustice League and paged through several photos. One, a candid shot of them in a group. Poison Ivy, in her classic green corset and fetish gloves, stood with her arms crossed looking arrogant and seductive. Another, Ivy and Cheetah on the roof of the Lexcorp building, sunning like two college girls on Spring Break, Cheetah flipping off the camera. Still another, at a party, Ivy and Catwoman drinking champagne in delicate chutes through each others' arms--in the background a disgruntled Joker was sneering at them and he himself was laughing at whatever Selina'd just said._

_"Such a waste," he muttered to himself._

**Now

Pamela looked amazing. Lex had always found the woman attractive, and he understood and didn't judge lesser men too harshly for falling at her feet and worshiping her. He stood and modulated his voice carefully, wishing to sound neutral. "Pamela! This is an unexpected pleasure!"

She was wearing a simple green dress, wedge heels, and her long, red curls loose--they flowed freely to well past her waist--longer than the last time he'd seen her. Death had apparently been agreeable for her. She strolled in like a Queen, setting a laptop case down on his desk and sitting, wordlessly, then crossing those long legs of hers. Lex cautiously watched her, waiting for her reaction.

"Hello, Lex." She said quietly, taking out a laptop and opening it. "Let's be honest, this visit wasn't entirely unexpected, now was it?"

"Well, I'd heard the rumors that you were back and was hopeful." He said it with a chuckle, but when she looked up, her eyes were hard.

"I thought we had an understanding, Lex. I knew what sort of man you are, and I accepted you for that. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, given how easily and often you've betrayed others, but still, I find myself--disappointed."

He cleared his throat. While he wasn't...afraid...only a fool would fail to give Poison Ivy the proper respect. The woman was a walking bioweapon. She could kill him right now with a thought, wipe out the whole building with a wave of her hand. She was...volatile. His hand hovered over his silent alarm button, and even now he was cursing himself for sending Mercy out on errands. "I'm at a loss, Pamela. What are you talking about?"

"Must we? Very well." She flipped the laptop around so he could see the screen showing that Waype, the Wayne Enterprises video calling ap, was up and a conference call was paused onscreen. He almost asked why she wasn't using Lexcorp's very competitive analog, but thought better of it when she continued. "I know Lexcorp funded Vivre Corp, Lex. Vivre Corp, founded by one Jason Woodrue. You're no fool, Lex, you know exactly who he is and what he did to me, and they were behind the attempted assassination. You were behind it by proxy." She paused for effect, then said, "You had an indirect hand in trying to kill me."

"Pamela, I think that's an oversimplification. Yes we had a working relationship with--" She cut him off.

"Save it, Lex. You wanted me out of the way because you knew I would fight you tooth and nail on that three billion dollar Miagani Pipeline."

There it was.

Lex hit the switch.

"Pamela, it's true, but I never intended for them to try and kill you. It was an attempt to counter your powers, even distract you." He didn't ask how she knew. It wasn't hard to piece together. Nygma, maybe. The little weasel was good at puzzles, and following a money trail was the exact kind of thing he excelled at.

"You once told me that business was all about risk vs. reward. You calculated that ratio and gambled, but you hedged your bets as much as possible. You gambled, Lex. You rolled the dice. You lost. You've chosen to make me an enemy."

Lex hit the switch again. Ivy's voice was all cold anger. This he could manage, but he'd seen her in a legitimate rage. No one wanted that.

She leaned forward and hit a key. A video feed started up. "Selina, darling, how are things?"

"Ivylicious!" Selina Kyle's pretty face came into view. She appeared to be holding up a phone. She grinned at the camera. "Hi there, Lex."

"Miss Kyle," he acknowledged.

"Aww, someone's a grumpy Gus. Don't worry, we'll help you out with that." The camera moved, and he saw she was at one of his homes, the one in Florida, a sprawling beach vacation house with a massive underground garage--the garage he kept his collection of several hundred million dollars worth of antique and high end sports cars...

"Pamela?" he asked. He hit the switch again. Where the hell were his security?

In answer, she pulled a pod out of her bag and placed it on his desk. He stared at it with something like trepidation.

"I quite like this little gem. I've been working on it for several years--its closest natural relative is Fabaceae, the chick pea. With a little nudge it explodes into rapid growth that constricts and destroys anything in its path. Once done, it creates thousands of seed pods, perfectly usable for human consumption. Just imagine, Lex. The thing that obliterates your little toys will get made into hummus."

Lex managed a surprised, "WHAT?" and then he saw Ivy's eyes glow that eerie, toxic green and onscreen, behind Selina Kyle, his house was covered over in thick green vines. It only took a few moments. Years of collecting, millions of dollars. he stared at the screen as Selina whooped and pumped her fist.

She turned to the phone and cheered, "Score one for the good guys! Remember a few months ago when you manipulated me? Bad. Call. Dude." She cheerfully flipped off the camera. Behind her, his home was gone, a field of thick vegetation proudly stood where it had all been before.

"Pamela, stop this. Let's talk about this like rational--" 

Without answering, she leaned over and hit a key, bringing up the second conferenced call. A camera was pointing at Lexcorp R&D, Gotham Branch. He blinked, automatically thinking of its thirty million price tag. In the foreground of the shot--it must have been a laptop because it was much steadier--Harley Quinn was pacing back and forth, a manic grin on her pale face. She was wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a wooden baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire. Mercy Graves was on her knees, one eye swollen half shut, bound with her hands behind her back and a ball gag in her mouth. She was staring at the camera with terror on her face.

"Harls, baby, how are we doing?" Ivy's voice was loaded with false sweetness. Harley's grin widened when she realized the camera was on.

"Oh baby," she kicked Mercy between the shoulders, sending her crashing to the ground. "'We pissing our pants yet? Oh boy--do I have a feeling we're getting close. It's going to be pee pants city here real soon.'"

"Quinn, let her go," Lex snarled. He hated the irritating little clown girl, could not understand what someone like Pamela Isley saw in the little ditz. Ivy arched a brow.

"Oh, Lex. You tried to fucking kill my fucking girl. That shit is not cool. Not fucking cool at all. I get it. You think you ruled the roost. Well that shit is over, Lex. You'll fucking accept that. Ain't that right, RICK!?" she punctuated that by grabbing Mercy by the hair, yanking her to her feet, and then cracking her in the back of the head with the handle of her bat, sending Mercy back down. Lex twitched wanting to act, but despite her relaxed posture he suddenly had a sinking feeling Ivy was waiting for him to move. She looked falsely apologetic.

"Sorry, Lex, I told her to be badass and scary and she's doing an impression of some show."

"HEY, I read the COMICS THANK YOU VERY MUCH!" Harley yelled, clearly having a blast.

Lex hit the switch.

"Lex, ya don't mess with the new world order. We're taking your shit." Harley intoned, then for effect she took a couple of practice swings. Mercy was still on the ground, tears running down her face and making muffled sounds through the gag.

"No one's coming to save you, Lex. Your security team will be asleep for a couple of days. In fact, no one in this building is currently conscious but you and I, thanks to the filtered air in this office. Your paranoia made this very easy to set up." 

"Pamela--"

"Ivy. You lost the privilege of calling me Pamela." He paused. Digested that.

"Very well, Ivy, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement--"

Her eyes glowed. Behind Harley Quinn, his R&D facility was obliterated. It took longer this time--the building was much larger than his vacation home, but soon, a mass of brilliant green was all that was visible.

She could not be placated. He took a calculated risk. Distracted for a second as she was staring at the screen, he lunged for the hidden particle disrupter in his right drawer, but she was faster. In a split second vines erupted from her, ripping his desk off the floor--which was surprising given that the whole thing was made from an alloy designed to slow down Superman-- and tossing it aside like a tissue box. They wrapped around his throat, lifting him off the ground, and then she carried him. Behind him, he heard the shatterproof glass break apart, and he struggled as coils of vines like steel cables wrapped around him She dangled him hundreds of feet above the street, empty air between him and a messy death.

Had it been any of the heroes, Superman, Wonder Woman, even Batman, he'd have blustered for them to do it, knowing they didn't have the guts. One look at Ivy's face, and he knew.

She'd happily drop him.

He hit the button on his watch.

A copy cat of the one Olsen wore, it sent out a high pitched frequency signal--a signal only one person in Metropolis could hear. He'd done it as a last resort, in full knowledge that in a desperate situation, the alien would save his life, despite their status as enemies.

"I'm going to say this once, Lex. If you ever cross me, I will come back here and end you. Your fragile little ego will compel you to, I'm sure, and that will be the end of Lex Luthor. I will destroy everything you've built and not Batman, Superman, or even the Justice League will be able to stop me. You know it. I know it. Don't do it again."

She dumped him on the floor and he lay there, gasping for air. Calmly she gathered up her laptop.

"Ivy..." he croaked. She turned with a raised eyebrow. "I'll email you all the information we have on Woodrue, where he is. I owe him no loyalty. I terminated the contract when the bomb went off."

"That would be helpful, thank you." He was about to say more when he heard the familiar and hated whoosh of air, and there he was. The alien.

"No sign of my friend, so I'm assuming one of you sent a signal for me?" He was...slightly amused. Ivy had turned and shook her head.

"It must have been him."

Superman smiled at her. "I heard you were back, I'm glad to see you're not dead."

She seemed surprised by that. "I, er, thank you."

"You did all this?" He vaguely gestured around the destroyed office. She smirked and he added, "Hey, none of my business."

Lex couldn't help his eyeroll. "Typical."

Ivy fished a card out of her laptop case and strolled over, hips swaying and drawing the alien's eye. Lex rolled his eyes again. 

"Tell Lois if she'd like an exclusive interview about my return, about the Sirens reforming, to give me a call. Nice to see you again."

Superman took off his watch, crushed it with a flex of his fingers as Ivy left, the door closing with a soft click.

"You really know how to make friends, Lex." 

Lex lay in the floor and flipped him off.


	6. The Green is with me and I am not Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy faces Jason Woodrue, back where it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to this series. Hope you enjoy it, and enjoyed the series, Thank you for reading!

The Green was with her and she was not afraid.

Even so, when it came into view, she froze.

There it was, the University Botany Research Annex...the UBRA...a small cabin in the middle of a giant old growth forest east of Seattle. Few people even knew it was here, that it’d ever been here. The department had never really utilized it back then, and after the fire, it’d been abandoned. Here it sat, in the shade of centuries old, hoary trees--paper birch, _Betula papyrifera_ , she idly noted, a blackened shell of what it had been.

This is where Pamela Isley had come to die.

This is where Poison Ivy was born. Well. Conceived.

A mile and a half deeper into the forest, beneath a white oak, _Quercus garryana_ , and entwined in its roots, covered over by a patch of poison ivy shrubs, _Toxicodendron rydbergii_ , Poison Ivy had gestated, wrapped in a cocoon, changing, for nine months. Jason carried her there when he thought he’d finally killed her, with a shovel.

Now the man capered about, fully convinced of his impending victory. The interference in the Green was strong, and it was eclipsing her senses. The source was behind her, she knew that much, but this close, she could feel Jason, feel his anger and his fear and his weakness. She knew, even if he hadn’t sussed it out himself, that he wasn’t the creature of the Green he thought himself to be. She knew his stated desire to ‘replace’ her somehow was nothing but smoke, because the Parliament’s rejection was all over him.

He was _wrong_ and she could sense it, even through the static.

That’s what it was like, ultimately. The interference was like listening to a radio station beginning to fade out. She could get flashes, but it was mostly fuzz. Inside the cabin, below, where the lab would have been, she could hear Thorn through the Green. Her terror, her desperation was all she could hear, and Ivy could feel her fists clenching. She’d made a promise to Thorn that no one would ever hurt her again. Poison Ivy kept her promises.

No, she would save Thorn, and she would stop Jason Woodrue, once and for all.

She was strong.

All the adversity, all the horror, all the struggle had led to this moment.

The Green was with her and she was not afraid.

Jason’s body had changed. Green, bark like skin, his long face exaggerated into an even longer one, beady, deep set eyes and a maddened rictus grin. He looked like...well...he looked like the Joker, and she repressed a shiver. Maybe that’s why, so long ago, when she’d first met a pretty clown girl desperately trying to make herself into something, anything, but a type A, boring, vanilla Doctor by clinging to an illusion of romance with a deranged serial killer, she hadn’t instantly rejected her. She’d seen something in her. Something of herself.

_There but for the grace of God go I_

Jason tossed moss-like hair out of his eyes. 

“So arrogant. Your hubris is astounding, little Pamela. I knew you’d come. I knew you’d figure out my little clue.”

“You’re not subtle, Jason. Or particularly interesting, for that matter.”

He laughed, and there was madness in his eyes. What had he done to himself to try and make himself her equal in power? He wasn’t stable--mentally or even physically--she kept noticing him twitch, spasm, like his body was rejecting whatever it was he’d taken.

It hadn’t been like that for her. The formula itself, that first injection, the one Pamela Isley had designed, had bonded perfectly to her. Jason had given her penicillin to start of with, and that shot had hurt worse than Project Eden entering her veins. Keyed to her own DNA, the hybridization formula had started as a thought experiment on a white board while chatting with Alec and Jason one afternoon. Jason had been dismissive, Alec encouraged her to expand. In hindsight, Jason had always been dismissive, right up until he decided to use her. 

“Always so smart. Always with a comeback, or a cutting observation. You never learned your place. That’s why I hated you. Why you must die now. You know that right?”

She felt contempt for him. “I know my place. You’re the one confused about this, Jason.”

“MY NAME IS NOT JASON!” He shrieked it, green spittle flying from his mouth that sizzled when it hit the ground. Ivy tensed. Behind her, she could sense movement--the source of the interference...was moving. She realized, then, what it was. Who it was.

“You can call me...Seeder!” Jason said, literally pausing for dramatic effect before saying his name.

Ivy laughed, she couldn’t help it, a long, mocking belly laugh.

“You’re a joke, Jason.” She used his name on purpose, seeing his rage cause him to spasm again. “And I know funny, my girlfriend is a clown.”

“Ah yes, the clown girl.” He narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Pamela. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

She could sense the thing moving behind her. “I doubt it, but go on, I’m listening.” She allowed a tiny plant tendril to start winding her long hair into a simple braid.

“It’s simple really. I just need you to learn your place. Drop to your knees and open your mouth.” He slapped his crotch for emphasis, and she felt a wave of nausea at the implication.. “I’ll let your little daughter go. Otherwise, after I’m done with you, I’m going to take a turn with her.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Ivy knew the banter portion was now over.

Behind her, she heard metal clang on metal, knew the Grimm was lunging. Jason--Seeder--gestured and a thorny vine flew toward her. 

The Green was with her and she was not afraid. 

Poison Ivy attacked.

**24 hours earlier

“Oh my gaaawd I’m bored,” Harley whined, but no one was listening. Ivy was off in the swamp with the girls, teaching them how to use their powers and basically just spending time with them. Harley didn’t begrudge her that, and honestly, she liked the girls. It irritated her she and Ivy had been having a spat when Ivy..uh...made them? Gave birth to them? She wasn’t sure how that worked.

Selina would know, and could’ve told her, but currently Catwoman was laying out on the porch of the little cabin on the edge of the bayou, soaking up sun in an itsy bitsy string bikini. She may or may not have been asleep, and Harley wasn’t sure. Selina could sit or lie motionless for hours and with her glasses on, Harley couldn’t tell if she was paying attention at all. That was the real problem, Harley mused, no one was paying attention to her.

Not even Croc, who was laying on a big rock near the edge of the water, just as asleep as Selina. Last night, he’d stayed up with Harley for hours playing Battlemeadow, and he’d been surprisingly good given his thick, malformed, scaley clawed fingers. Strangely enough, the big guy had a friendly relationship will all of them--he liked Harley, respected Selina, and practically worshipped Ivy. The sporeling girls treated him like a giant teddy bear, dogpiling him when they saw him. Croc loved every minute of it and the analyst part of Harley, buried deep inside her psyche, knew it was their total lack of awareness that he was a ‘freak.’ The girls were naive and innocent, and they just saw him as ‘cool.’

It freaked her out, still, the idea that Poison Ivy had three teenage daughters. She liked it. She liked being ‘Aunt Harley,’ and it was fascinating to the remnants of Dr. Quinzel how Ivy’s personality had disseminated among the three. 

Rose was sweet, beautiful, and sly. She was not above being adorable to get her way, and she’d naturally been drawn to her pheromone powers. In fact, Ivy’d told Harley to be careful around Rose--that she wasn’t entirely in control of her pheromones and it would be weird if Harley found herself on the receiving end of a teenager’s control of her libido--especially Ivy’s daughter! Squicked out at the thought, Harley was indeed very careful around the girl.

Hazel was boisterous, athletic, and forward. She had a habit of standing with her fists on her hips that was so reminiscent of one of Ivy’s favorite poses it made Harley want to giggle. Hazel liked to sing and had an excellent voice.

Thorn was angry. She refused to call Ivy any version of ‘Mother’ and instead referred to her as Ivy. She was sullen and sarcastic. In short, she was a teenage girl, and Harley could see Ivy didn’t handle it well.

“Suh LEEEN uuuuh,” she whined again, and this time the other woman used a hand to lift up her sunglasses and arch an annoyed eyebrow at her. “I’m BOOOOORED.”

“So? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Talk to me! Let’s play a game or something. Let’s go get Ivy!”

“Ivy’s busy, I’m getting a tan, and we’re flying back to Gotham tomorrow. You can go back to being Harley Quinn, consulting detective or whatever it is you’re doing. Tomorrow.”

“Private Eye, thank you. Or Private Dick, if you prefer.” Harley giggled.

“Harley, you can’t even deduce who the villain is in Scooby Doo mysteries. What business do you have being a detective?”

“Hey, Old Man Smithers came out of nowhere! Sherlock Holmes would have been blindsided!”

Selina just laughed and shook her head.

One thing Harley DID have trouble getting used to was Ivy’s friend, Swamp Thing, whose voice was deep and terrible, who looked like a walker from a zombie show, only covered in sour moss and lichen and on steroids. When he looked at her, she felt like he was looking into her, through her. He was nice enough, but he still creeped her out.

And she was a little jealous.

Ivy had a relationship with him that Harley couldn’t figure out. They weren’t lovers--she honestly didn’t know how you could be with a walking heap of vegetation--but there was a familiarity and intimacy there that Harley had never seen Ivy have with anyone, including her. They understood each other. It gave Harley an unfamiliar feeling to see them talking quietly together, comfortable with each other. It was disquieting. It made her brain want to wander down paths she didn’t want to--paths regarding what Ivy really was and how alien she could be.

It made her wonder if someday, Ivy would leave them. Leave her. Someday, Ivy would want to be with her own kind. Harley hated that idea.

***

“Control, Thorn. You’ve got the vine now, but we’re not knocking down walls here. More control.” Ivy’s voice was calm.

Thorn was concentrating, sweat beaded on her brow from the blistering, sweltering humidity and sun. Rose held perfectly still, an apple on her head, as Thorn guided the tendril of vine near it, trying to pluck it off with finesse and not hurt her sister. Nearby, Hazel was practicing growing things, changing one plant to another, with Dr. Holland, the Swamp Thing. 

She glanced at her mother, at Ivy, and wanted to say something nasty, but when her concentration broke the vine snapped back, narrowly missing Rose, who squeaked and dove to the ground. The apple fell, but the vine snapped out like a snake striking, catching the fruit before it hit the ground. Ivy hadn’t even needed to gesture, it was like the vine was a part of her. Thorn bit back a retort, helping Rose up.

“Sorry.”

Rose smiled and squeezed her. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there, sis.” Thorn braced herself for her mother’s inevitable criticism--Ivy’s criticism, she mentally amended.

“You’re doing much better, Thorn.” Wait, what?

Ivy approached, the vine dropping the apple into her hand, which she handed to Thorn. “You’ve improved so much. Let’s call it and head back. I think Aunt Selina and Aunt Harley might have a pizza surprise for you girls tonight.” A smile flickered across Ivy’s face, and Rose squealed, hugging her. Thorn met Ivy’s gaze. 

Was it a peace offering?

It didn’t matter.

Ivy had promised her, and then she died. She’d left them alone for nine whole months.

She sneered at her mother and turned to head back to the cottage.

She didn’t see Ivy sigh in disappointment.

***

Ivy was folding her socks, unpacking from the trip to Louisiana, when she felt something. A flicker in the Green. Something uncomfortable. After a moment of searching and not feeling anything more, she dismissed it.

It was several hours later, as she was watering, her phone went off. Unknown caller. Curious, thinking maybe one of the girls had picked up a new burner phone, she answered.

“Hello, Pamela.” Her blood ran cold. Jason’s voice was etched into her brain, she’d recognize it anywhere. “What, no warm greeting for your old lover?”

“You weren’t my lover, Jason. You raped me. What do you want?” She kept her voice carefully neutral.

“To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to, Pammie.” He sounded gleeful, like he had the upper hand--the same tone he’d used when she was strapped to that table, unable to do more than moan or whimper. She ground her teeth.

“You tried to kill me. Again. Jason, you can’t hide forever and when…” she was cut off.

“Oh, Pammie, I’d watch that tone. Little Thorn here will pay for it.” Her blood ran colder, and instantly she reached out through the Green, seeking Thorn. Their connection made it easy, her blood was Thorn’s blood, and instantly she found Rose and Hazel. They were upset. 

_Alec!_ He answered right away, his voice as deep and comforting through the Green as it was in person.

_**I hear you, Pamela Isley. Your daughters are worried. Thorn Isley is not here, and I cannot find her through the Green.**_ She could hear the sorrow in his voice.

_I think Woodrue has her. He’s taunting me on the phone now._

_**In recent months, Jason Woodrue has been sniffing around, hoping to take your place. This sort of pettiness suits him. I will help if I can, but something is interfering with my sense of Thorn.** _

_Thank you Alec. I will call for you if I have need._

“Where is she?” she asked Jason out loud. “What have you done, Jason?”

“Oh, you’ll see. Come to where it all began, Pamela. I’d hurry, I have her here, all wrapped up like a pretty present, and I might get bored.”

There was a pause.

“She looks so much like you did, Pammie.”

The phone went dead.

***

“Ivy, wait, we have to have a plan,” Selina pleaded as Ivy paced, on the phone, booking a flight.

“No time, Selina, every second is a second he has alone with Thorn. I can’t...I can’t…”

Harley caught her in a hug, and to her surprise, Ivy clung to her. Selina swallowed, not used to seeing Ivy near panic.

“It’s gonna be ok, Red, we’ll get there on time,” Harley murmured.

She needed reassurance. Harley went to hug her again, but then Selina, who was staring at the news on TV, said, “No, we won’t. But I have a crazy idea, and it might just work.”

***  
The battle was rough, but the Teen Titans had won. 

The others were soaking up the cheers, even Damian, who looked sullen but was feeling proud and vindicated. So much emotion. It was hard on Rachel Roth--Raven--whose empathy was more curse than blessing.

Starfire was overjoyed, however, and grabbed her hand. “Isn’t it the wonderful, friend Raven?” she asked in her lilting voice.

“Fabulous,” she croaked back. There was a reason Kori was her best friend, however. Kori had no guile, the emotions she expressed were identical to the ones in her head, and Raven loved that about her. Kori didn’t give her a headache.

Gotham was a strange city, and the people puzzled her. They stood around, cheering, but there was something holding them back. It was like a massive sadness or apprehensiveness gripped the entirety of the population. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it made her nervous. The ennui here was like a living thing, a shadow, that lurked over everything. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was…

A smile.

A bat.

She shivered and tried to block it out. Raven was good at blocking things out--it was the only way she could stay sane.

“Excuse me, Raven, right?” The voice was female, and she turned to find three women approaching. It was clear who they were, the speaker was the infamous thief, Catwoman. With her were Poison Ivy, a woman whose power reverberated in the air, and Harley Quinn, a woman who had such a tenuous grasp on sanity Raven immediately created a mental barricade, but not before she saw it again.

A smile.

“Titans! Form up!” she heard Damian yell, and suddenly the others were huddling around her, defensively, Damian in front, arms crossed over his skinny chest. 

“We just stopped a demon incursion, you three tramps ready to go back to Arkham?” he sneered.

“We’re not here to fight,” began Catwoman. Raven could sense her dislike for Damian, but it was Poison Ivy’s fear that drew her.

“Wait, Robin,” she heard herself saying. To Ivy, she asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She’d never really met the woman before, but couldn’t help but admire her beauty, her strength. It was a steady resolve that was as great as anyone she’d ever met. It reminded her a bit of Damian’s father, Batman, the easy confidence that came from hard won ability, rather than the brittle arrogance Damian radiated.

“I need your help,” she began. Her voice was deep, strong, sexy. Raven liked it. “I need to get to Washington State, and I need to be there now.

Raven could sense the truth, the desperation. She didn’t even question, just held out her hand.

**The Present

The Grimm wrapped its burly arms around her, the metal bolted to its rotting limbs cutting at her flesh, and bore her to the ground.

“ **Iiiiisleeeeey! Iiiiisleeeey diiiiiiieee!** ” the thing snarled in her ear, its midden heap breath sour. Nothing was left of the man, she realized with a shiver. Ahead of her, she heard Jason cackling.

“Like the improvements, Pammie? I’m afraid after you and Holland had your way with him, poor Grimm was in a bad way. Vivre Corp found a way to hold him together and channel that power. What do you know, I found a use for his ability to disrupt the Green, all that static. We wouldn’t want Holland interrupting us now, would we?”

Grimm’s right hand was now three saber length blades of metal, its left hand replaced by a plasma cutter that was heating up. Ivy struggled to get free. The creature’s mouth draped open, acidic spittle dropping to sizzle harmlessly against her skin. There was nothing in its eyes. 

“After you’re dead, and I’ve had a little fun with the girl, Grimm gets what’s left, Pammie. He needs that DNA to stay alive, I’m sure you understand.”

The Green was with her and she was not afraid.

Jason never really understood, and Grimm was beyond getting it. It wasn’t just a battery to tap or something to be conquered. It was her strength, her power, her everything, and she felt it come easily when she called to it. It flowed into her muscles, strengthening her. Hardened her skin. Time seemed to slow, and when the plasma cutter came down, she stopped the descending arm by catching it. Grimm, in a rage, tried to push down, but she worked her leg between them and then launched the brute away.

“No!” Jason yelled, and with a flick of his arm sent a mass of seeds flying her way, the small spheres turning into razors midair.

Ivy made a brushing motion with her arm, and a root burst from the ground, knocking them away.

Grimm rose to its feet, roaring, no longer capable of words.

“I’ve had enough.” She reached down, grasping the writhing root and pulling. The Green channeled through her, and the root began to straighten. Behind her, Grimm screamed in agony. Jason gestured, a mass of vines tearing free of the forest and launching at her.

Halfway there, they simply stopped. 

“You’ve never understood, Jason.”

“It’s Seeder! Call me Seeder!!” He screamed, losing it. He was trying to control the vines, but they hung limply in the air before slowly retracting. “Obey me! Destroy her!”

“The Green, the plants...it isn’t something you control. It’s something you love. It’s something you sacrifice for, but you...you are unable to love, and you’ve no concept of sacrifice.” She raised the sword she’d just made from living wood, the weapon practically crackling with the raw energy of life, of creation. Behind her she heard the Grimm make a new noise.

A whimper of fear.

“They won’t attack me, Jason, because I am Poison Ivy. I am the Sword of the Green.”

“Kill her, kill her now, fool!” Jason roared at the Grimm, and with a yowl, the Grimm charged her.

“The Green is with me and I will know no fear.”

She moved in a blur, ducking under the Grimm’s lumbering swing and slicing off its arm. The blade met no resistance, cutting through flesh, wood, and steel with no effort. She whirled with a flourish, graceful and strong, and met the Grimm’s outraged swing with the plasma cutter head on, chopping off that limb as well. Behind him, Jason was screaming his denial, the Grimm looked confused, and at the last minute, to Ivy, he looked grateful as she took his head.

“I was chosen, Jason. This is my destiny.” She walked toward him, her senses clear now that Grimm was dead. Below, she could feel Thorn’s terror, and Jason’s confusion and fear.

“Go ahead. Kill me, Pammie. We both know I’ll always be up here,” he sneered and tapped his temple.

“No, Jason. I’ve already moved past you. I’m already looking to the next battle. You were merely a minor inconvenience. You? Irrelevant.”

He was still screaming no when she thrust the sword through him, the power draining from him, and at the end, all that was left, were the remains of a man.

Just a man.

Thorn clung to her, crying, calling her ‘Mama.’

Before she left, massive roots obliterated that old cabin, and Poison Ivy closed a chapter on her life.

EPILOGUE

Felix Faust grinned as the soul receptable filled, and now Jason Woodrue was added to his collection. The little soul was confused, and it said in a tiny voice, “Where...am...I?”

“Oh,” Faust replied, delighted, “I’m afraid you were duped. It happens when you make...Faustian deals.” He chuckled at his own joke, but the little soul didn’t laugh.

Trapped, betrayed, disembodied souls were a tough audience, he reflected.

“Promised...power,” the little soul managed. Faust chuckled again.

“Oh, you had the power to challenge Poison Ivy. We saw to that, but you were never meant to win. She’s a major player, and you were just a pawn.”

“Player? What...game?”

“In the Apocalypse, of course.” He placed the soul jar on a shelf with dozens of others. Dozens of betrayed souls whose energies would help the four rise.

Lord Hades.

Trigon the Terrible.

Jormungandr.

The Rot King.

Soon the pieces would all be in place. Poor Jason Woodrue had no idea his only real purpose here was to introduce two of the four shields for the first time.

He muttered the stanzas by rote, committed to memory years ago.

 

Four women will rise  
As men weep and cower  
To defend Earth's skies  
In Mankind's darkest hour

Amazonian Goddess  
Atlantean Queen  
Daughter of Darkness  
A Kiss from the Green

The pieces were moving into place. All would soon be ready. Felix Faust grinned as he walked back to his desk.

“Let the game begin.”


End file.
